


The Fix

by Morgause1



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Blood, D/s, Fluff, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Master/Servant, Melkor says one thing but does another, Soul Bond, Vala/maia, Valarin magic, angbang, poor mairon, Ósanwe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-14
Updated: 2017-06-14
Packaged: 2018-11-14 04:37:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11200581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morgause1/pseuds/Morgause1
Summary: Just some quick Angbang fluff, you know? The kind with blood, pain, fear, and promises of horrible violence ahead. But still sweet and cozy! Beware.





	The Fix

Melkor knew that something was wrong when he heard the cry. It was far off, leagues and leagues away. By the color and taste of it, he knew it could have come from one place alone:

Tol-in-Gaurhoth.

He contacted his Lieutenant’s mind straight away and became enraged when he wouldn’t answer his call. Did the Maia really dare refuse him? He called again, louder. This time he managed to grasp his soul tight enough to enforce communication.

“What is happening?”

He didn’t expect the answer to be garbled, awash with feelings of fear and shame, more a moan than actual words. “Lost…”

“Lost? What’s lost?” when no answer came his fury flared into a full-on storm. He extended his Will across the distance between them, thick with _coercion_. “Mairon! Answer immediately!"

“ _There everlastingly thy naked self shall endure the torment of his scorn, pierced by his eyes, unless thou yield to me the mastery of thy tower._ ”

That voice was new to Melkor, alluring yet offensive. Where did it come from? Mairon was usually much better at organizing his mind when he needed to speak to him in thought; he never just threw irrelevant garbage at him like that. The foul voice was then replaced by his Lieutenant’s familiar whisper.

“Lost the tower. Enemies… took it. Must flee from the Master, for he would…”

Flee?! “Mairon, return here right this instant. Is that clear? Mairon!”

“Yes…” the mournful breath echoed in his mind. Melkor got up and strode toward the fortress wall, when a though made him stop in his tracks. Was he hurt?

 

He spotted him from the parapet – he was flying slowly, zigzagging and floundering through every gust of air. When the Vampire finally crashed at his feet, Melkor saw his torn throat, his fur drenched in black blood –

“Take care of him,” he commanded and two guards hoisted him on their shoulders.

 

Mairon was wearing his Eldarin shape when Melkor came to his rooms a few hours later, probably in an attempt to pacify his Lord by using the fána Melkor liked best. But he wasn’t as beautiful as he usually was: he was pale, his waxen cheeks almost the color of the bandages that covered his neck, his chest, and his hands. His eyelids were sunken and transparent. He was trembling, either with pain or with fear. Most likely both. Melkor already had all the information he required from the few Orc soldiers who escaped when the tower fell. He knew how Mairon was attacked, how careless and irresponsible he’d been, how he was defeated and driven out of one of Melkor’s most important strongholds. Mairon opened his eyes when he heard footsteps, but sighed and turned away when he saw the displeasure on his Master’s face.

“You hate me…” He could barely speak. His voice was hoarse, a strange gurgling sound as blood bubbled and clotted in his throat.

“I don’t hate you.”

“But I disappointed…”

“Obviously.” Melkor uncrossed his arms and pushed away from the door. “I truly cannot imagine a way you could have handled this any worse. I thought much better of you. I guess I was wrong.”       

Mairon winced and wouldn’t look at him when he sat down beside him on the bed. A fit of wheezing and coughing overtook him. His mouth full of dark blood, he managed to whisper: “Forgive… me.”

“My forgiveness costs dear, as well you know. Now stop stressing your throat: if your body dies, I would not help you to rebuild it.” Melkor reached and took his bandaged hand, enfolding the torn fingers gently in his. “Close your eyes and sleep; I want you back on your feet soon.”

Mairon closed his eyes obediently but remained awake, gasping softly. To his surprise, Melkor noticed a single tear hanging from his eyelashes, sparkling like a ruby in the firelight: he’d never seen Mairon cry before. And indeed, the Maia screwed his eyes tight and the tear vanished as if it never existed.

Something didn't seem quite right. His pain was excessive considering the treatment he got and there was a subtle vibration surrounding him. Melkor turned to examine his wounds. Just like he thought – the wounds were poisoned, filled with Ainu magic by Oromë’s hound and that wench – could she really have Maiarin blood in her? Melkor scoffed. And then he began to hum.

The darkness liquefied, undulating and curling on Melkor’s voice. Rivulets of ink spilled all over Mairon, penetrating his nose and mouth. They invaded the wounds, killing off all light and loathsome Song. It seemed to work – Mairon’s breathing deepened, eased. He fell asleep. Melkor turned to rest his back against the headboard and slugged his booted feet upon the bed at Mairon’s side, watching as color crept slowly back into his face. His hand moved absentmindedly, toying with Mairon’s ear, naked now with all its usual ornaments gone.

Yes, the Maia would be punished – and quite severely at that – but only when he’s strong enough to take it. And for now…

For now Melkor was just glad that he was safe again.


End file.
